This was Bill Beverly, a cheerful young man in white flannel
trousers and a blazer.
"Hallo, Major," he said as he came in, "how's the gout?"
"It isn't gout," said the Major gruffly.
"Well, whatever it is."
The Major grunted.
"I make a point of being polite at breakfast," said Bill, helping
himself largely to porridge. "Most people are so rude. That's
why I asked you. But don't tell me if it's a secret. Coffee?"
he added, as he poured himself out a cup.
"No, thanks. I never drink till I've finished eating."
"Quite right, Major; it's only manners." He sat down opposite to
the other. "Well, we've got a good day for our game. It's going
to be dashed hot, but that's where Betty and I score. On the
fifth green, your old wound, the one you got in that frontier
skirmish in '43, will begin to trouble you; on the eighth, your
liver, undermined by years of curry, will drop to pieces; on the
twelfth--"
"Oh, shut up, you ass!"
"Well, I'm only warning you. Hallo; good morning, Miss Norris.
I was just telling the Major what was going to happen to you and
him this morning.
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